


Soldier's Grin

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Whatever he sees, it's not a dinner waitress with a minor cut.</em> - PTSD!fic, outsider POV, set early S4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier's Grin

**Author's Note:**

> For Hoodie Time's [Dean-focused h/c fic and art challenge](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/549375.html), based on [this anonymous prompt](http://hoodie-time.livejournal.com/549500.html?thread=7216764#t7216764).
> 
> Maypoles (who also picked the song for title) and dotfic looked this over. Thanks, BBs! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is from "Soldier's Grin" by Wolf Parade.

The reason the two boys caught her attention when they sat down two booths over were their looks. Greta's not ashamed to admit that; Hank's been dead a few years now, and she didn't have it in her to search for someone new, so _looking_ is all she's got left now. 

And she doesn't notice something's wrong, at first. They both look exhausted, a little weary, nothing out of the ordinary. It's not until the taller one excuses himself to the bathroom that she sees it in the other boy. As soon as his friend disappears between the swing doors leading to the facilities, he visibly deflates, almost as if he’s taking a mask off. 

And once that mask goes down, she _knows_. She's seen it before. In Hank, the first few years after after he came back, and in too many young men after that. 

His posture changes, subtly, but enough for her to recognize. No one would've noticed before how tightly he's been keeping himself together, but now the tension drains out of him as if someone’s released a bow's string after holding it at the ready for too long. He exhales, closes his eyes and mumbles something to himself; from what Greta knows about these things, it's most likely a reprimand, a reminder that he's got to keep his chin up and pretend he's fine. His face takes on a version of the haunted look that Greta knows so well; she spent years staring at it, pleading at it, begging to be let in. 

Eventually, Hank gave in and allowed her to help him, but she can tell that this boy? He's still a long way from sharing the burden. Greta wonders where he's been. Middle East, most likely, Kosovo or Afghanistan. The shock is too fresh for anything else, he must have gotten back recently. 

While he waits for his friend to return, he busies himself with little things, checks his phone, picks the menu up and looks through it although they've already ordered, puts it back down. He's trying to keep his mind occupied, Greta knows. 

His eyes keep flying to the swing doors. 

Some obnoxious little voice in the back of Greta's head whispers at her to walk over, give him a few words of reassurance, but of course she won't. One doesn't do such a thing, and anyway, all she'd achieve is to make him feel embarrassed and caught. 

So she keeps watching him out of the corner of her eye while Penny, the kind young waitress that always packs up the leftovers for Greta without making her ask for it, approaches the boys' table with their food. Someone else yells for her when she's just about to set the plates down and she whips around, smiles. "I'll be with you in a sec, honey." 

The lack of attention to what she's doing causes her to put the plates down a hand's width short of the table's edge, and it all drops to the ground at the boy's feet. It happens fast; dishes and cutlery crash down before either of them can react. Penny kneels down, so new to the job that the mess she made is still a drama to her, cuts herself on the shards when she tries to gather them up. 

Blood trickles down onto the mix-up of hash browns and vegetables and steak and salad, and in the booth, the young man jumps up. He doesn't run; once he's on his feet he freezes, doesn't move or even blink, nothing but stare down at the mash of food and the thick, red drops of blood collecting on it. But nevertheless, suddenly the eyes of everyone in the room are on him, not on Penny, who still kneels on the ground and helplessly holds her hand up. 

He doesn't seem to notice that he's just became the center of attention, captivated by the food and the blood. Whatever he sees, it's not a dinner waitress with a minor cut. 

Greta decides that this is a good time to give up on polite restraint and stands, walks over to the other booth. First, she helps Penny get up and sends her on her way to clean herself up and get a mop, and then she turns to the boy. Every move slow and careful, as if faced with a spooked horse, she puts a hand on his shoulder. A mistake; he flinches away and averts his gaze, embarrassed. 

_Oh kid,_ Greta thinks, _what have you been through?_

But he blinks, stares down at her in confusion. He seems to be back in the here and now, and she counts that one as a win. 

Gently, she guides him to sit down, and he's back on the booth and out of everyone's view when he seems to remember that he's not supposed or allowed to accept help, bats at her hand. His head comes back up, and he glares at her. Says, "I'm fine," but without conviction; it's not true, that much is obvious. 

"It'll get better, you know," she says, low enough that he's the only one who'll hear, but she tries to put all her confidence into it, be as convincing as she possibly can. "It's going to take a while, but eventually it'll all fade away and get easier to life with."

He just shrugs, doesn't answer, and Greta didn't expect him to. Accepting advice like this, it requires facing up to fact that there's a problem in the first place, and he's nowhere near ready for that yet. 

For his sake, she hopes that he will be, one day. 

Penny returns, new apron around her waist and with a hand brush, dust pan and cleaning rag in her arms. She drops to her knees to clean up, and Greta watches the boy retreat further into the booth, almost as if he tries to make himself disappear. She's about to tell Penny to leave it, do this later, when the boy's friend returns. 

He gives the mess on the ground a cursory glance, and then his eyes zero in on his friend. "Dean? What happened?" 

The boy — Dean — shakes his head, eyes pleading for him to let this go. "Nothing. She dropped the plate. I... Really, Sam, nothing happened." He takes a breath, sobers his expression back to stoic and indifferent. "And you know what? I lost my appetite. Let's go?" 

Sam's gaze pings back and forth between Penny and Greta, angry and protective, but it softens when it falls back to Dean and he sees his still sped-up breathing, the way Dean very pointedly looks anywhere else than at the ground in front of the booth. He nods. "Yeah, okay. You go ahead, and I'll pay?" 

He follows Penny to the counter, doesn't seem to listen as she sputters apologies at him. Meanwhile, Dean gets up, gives Greta a curt nod, and hurries out of the dinner. 

She watches as he walks to the car, gets in, buries his face in his hands for a moment before he deliberately straightens in his seat and starts the engine. By the time Sam's done paying up and joins him, he's grinning a big, fake grin, shakes his head at something Sam says. 

They pull out of the parking lot, and Greta keeps looking after them until the car disappears from view. She hasn't prayed in a long time, not since Hank died, but now she sends a thought skywards to beg that this boy will make it, manage to move past whatever happened to him.


End file.
